Henry and Cato (38 page)

He had already tried to break it off but this proved impossible. His arms were without strength and the fruitless effort brought bursts of pain in his head until he swayed giddy against the wall. He touched the joint gently trying to determine whether or not it was screwed on, but his finger-tips, when so urgently interrogated, sent contradictory messages and then became insensible. He swayed the pipe, tried to twist it, but was unsure whether, if it was a screw, he were not screwing it tighter rather than unscrewing it. Which way did screws screw? Without vision this instinctive knowledge was lost. After a while he gave up and went back exhausted to his bed and to the misery of remorse and the fear of death.

Sitting on his bed he fumbled for his trousers and pulled them on. Having been unable to devise any way of keeping them up, he had to take them off if he wanted to walk. For the hundredth time he searched his empty pockets, then slid his hands automatically down his trouser legs. His fingers touched the turn-ups of the trousers, his fingernails explored the fluff and dust inside the turn-ups. Then suddenly there was something else. His fingers, excited, sensitive, touched something, pinned it, grasped it.
A match.
Holding the match safely in one hand, he quickly explored for other ones. No. Only one match. But a match. Was it the kind that he could strike without a box? If so how could he use it? Should he preserve it for some future chance, or should he use it now to solve the riddle of the pipe in the lavatory? After reflecting he got up again and, holding the match very carefully, took off his trousers. He stood listening for a moment, then went back to the invisible pipe, thrusting the now reeking bucket aside with his foot. He felt the position of the twisted pipe, then began to touch the wall above it. The wall was dreadfully smooth, but at last his fingers found a very slight granular roughness. After a moment's hesitation and with a violent heart beat he drew the precious match firmly down the wall.

The sudden bright light was for a second almost an agony and he closed his eyes against it and nearly dropped the match. Then when he opened his eyes he seemed to be looking into a weird picture. The wall, very close to him, was a dark but rather radiant green, and Cato felt that he had never in his life seen such a wonderful colour. Then he saw that the wall was not plain, but was covered with the strange all-over design which he had noticed before in the light of Beautiful Joe's candle, and was also irregularly dotted, with weird pinkish spots. Cato's eyes, struggling with the picture suddenly placed so close before them, found themselves
reading.
There was a name,
Jeff Mitchell,
and a date. A crude drawing. Other names.
Tommy Hicks, Peter the Wolf.
Other dates.
15 July 1942.
3.8.43.
20 January 1940. 17 April 1944,
11.4.41. The whole wall was covered with names and dates.

The match burnt Cato's fingers and he dropped it, but just as it fell he looked down and saw the pipe and interpreted the puzzle which his fingers had failed to understand. There was a screw and he instantly knew which way it should turn. He leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing deeply. Then he took hold of the pipe and tried to turn it. It would not yield. He returned again to his bed. The match had revealed at least two other things. His cell was part of an old wartime air raid shelter. There were many such underground warrens, underneath government offices, or under buildings that had once been offices, some of which had disappeared during the war itself. He might be anywhere in central London, in some blocked abandoned honeycomb the entrance to which was a lost secret. He had read of such places. He had also, in his vivid flash of light, solved another problem, the origin of the sound which was so like a distant bulldozer. It was the tiny crepitation of hundreds of pinkish beetles, slightly larger relations of the ones in his kitchen at the Mission, which had made the place their own. He shuddered, stretching out his hands and seeming now to feel them everywhere, walking upon the bed, upon his shirt and naked arm.

He must not give way, he must take initiatives and try to save himself. It was a soldier's duty, if taken prisoner, to escape. But it all seemed so hopeless. If he was indeed in an air raid shelter the pipe on which he had intended to tap would not lead anywhere, to any neighbouring house or place of rescue. He would try to detach his ‘tool' because it was something to do. But he had no plan and no prospect of release, he was effectively buried. No one would miss him or look for him. His father would grieve over his absence but with proud arrogance would never seek for him, would assume he had run back to his ‘religious friends'. Colette would be uneasy but would do nothing. What would Henry do? Would he, after that letter, go to the police? No. Could Henry easily be intimidated? Yes. Oh if only I had not written that letter, thought Cato, lying in the dark. It was such a dishonourable awful thing to do. I will write no more letters for these people. I would not have written it if I had not been so dazed. I must not let them drug me.

Some time ago (hours ago?) Beautiful Joe had come with some food. He had only stayed a moment, long enough to put the food on the table, and had then vanished in a flash of torch light. Joe had seemed agitated, excited, nervous, angry or frightened. Cato reflected fruitlessly on this enigma. The food, at which he groped, consisted of water, in a cardboard cup, two slices of bread and some sort of mashed up fish (sardines?) which had been turned out onto a sheet of paper. He was very hungry. He decided that if the food was drugged the drug would be in the fish. He ate the bread and drank the water and rather reluctantly put the fish into the bucket. He now felt weak, hungry, but clear-headed. But what did he hope to achieve by keeping his wits about him? Did he really imagine that, even if he could achieve it physically, he would have the courage to charge out of the door into those awful rooms beyond where he would be killed like an escaping rat?

His eyes still boiled strangely from the shock of the sudden light, and lying in the blackness his head swarmed with images. He saw again and again, as if it had been printed on his vision, the green wall and the names and the wartime dates and the big pink beetles, moving quietly. He saw Colette in her green overall and the garden at Pennwood. He saw his mother, an almost imaginary figure composed out of now inaccessible memories. He saw Father Milsom saying mass, and Brendan's Spanish crucifix. He seemed to see somewhere, as a great black hump, his own death, and the fear of death turned and twisted in him with an anguish which was like the whining blubbering misery of a child. He pictured the face of Christ and wondered if he could pray. Strange words came to his lips. ‘Lord Christ, whoever you may be, if it please you to be called by this name, by this name I call upon you …'

He had been asleep and woke. There was a pale faint light all about him, and the walls, scrawled with their patterns of graffiti, were a dark shadowy grey. A candle was burning underneath the table. He sat up, leaning against his pillow.

Beautiful Joe was sitting, as before, upon the table, quite still, staring at Cato. He was wearing jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

Cato felt a sick thrill of fear. His body, though scarcely yet his mind, had begun to know that each appearance of Joe brought him nearer to
that.
Joe looked different. Cato remembered that he must pretend to be drugged. In fact he felt so weak that no pretence was needed. He said, ‘I feel so strange.' Beautiful Joe continued to stare.

‘Joe, Joe, speak to me—Oh God what a nightmare—' Joe got off the table and came towards him, blotting out the light, his shadow falling on Cato. Cato cowered back. Joe sat down on the side of the bed. ‘You shouldn't have taken it.' ‘Taken what?'

‘The gun. That was stealing. You threw it in the river. That was the start. That was what made me mad. I couldn't forgive you.' His voice sounded odd, almost unfamiliar. He took off his glasses and rubbed his cheeks and his eyes looked huge and dark like the eyes of a skull.

‘I did it to help you, to save you.'

‘You shouldn't have done it, and you shouldn't have gone on to me about Mr Marshalson. You tried to buy me with his money. It's all your fault.'

‘Joe, are you all right? You look so strange. They haven't been doing anything to you?'

‘They? No. They're not here just now except for the big chap on the door, that dotty negro. He can break a man's neck just like that, snick.'

‘Have they seen Henry?'

‘I've seen Henry. He brought some money. He was so frightened he could hardly stand. I'll make him go on his knees next time. We'll get the next lot tomorrow. Look I want to show you this.' Something appeared in Joe's hand, flickered in the dim light. A knife. Cato wriggled back. ‘See those stains? That's Henry's blood.' ‘Joe, you haven't—'

‘Oh, I haven't hurt him, I just nicked him to let him see I could. And I want you to know that I could too, see? Cato. Isn't that your name?' Joe wiped the knife on the sleeve of Cato's shirt. Then he held the blade lightly, pointing it at Cato's throat.

‘Joe, put that knife away.'

Joe advanced the blade and Cato felt the light touch of the point on his neck. Then there was a click and the blade vanished. Joe put the knife in his pocket. ‘You wouldn't believe how cruel these men are, they're real cruel people. They're cruel just because they like it. So you better keep quiet, you know. They could just lock you up here and go away. You could scream. No one would find you for years. Christ, that bucket stinks. I wonder if you'll suffocate?'

‘They'll hurt you too—'

‘No they won't. One of the top chaps fancies me. He's going to take me away with him to—never mind where. He's going to take me away like you wanted to once. Cato. Such a long time ago. It seems years ago, doesn't it. Did you really mean it?'

‘Oh God if only you'd come—'

‘And we'd have lived together—up there—'

‘In Leeds.'

‘And you'd have done your teaching stuff and I'd have learnt things like you wanted—read books maybe—I'd like to learn philosophy—'

‘Yes—'

‘I think I'm a bit of an existentialist. Cato.'

Cato thought, he is drugged or drunk. But the idea of escape could not now move him even to twitch a limb. It was hopeless, the knife here, the big crazy negro beyond the door. Cato put a hand to his throat where he could still feel the point of the knife. Only a willed rigidity kept him from trembling.

‘Joe, if we could only get out of here it could all come true even now, like you said. Henry would give us money, we could live in the north, you could do anything you like, study philosophy, why not— Joe, can't you get us out somehow? You can't want to stay with these awful people, you can't—'

‘You better be careful, Cato. That's not a way to talk. Do you want me to tell on you? They'll be back soon. They got other things to do. You're not important. I just got to look after you, that's my job, you were my idea. Then I'll be away in the big time, in the big world, out of this shitty little country. So don't you talk. You lie still, or I'll break you myself. It's all your fault, I told you. You shouldn't have taken that gun.'

‘I'm sorry—'

‘You said you loved me—'

‘I did, I do.'

Beautiful Joe was sitting close to him on the bed. Cato could feel the warmth of the boy's body and now a slight movement brought Joe's bare arm into contact with his own. Joe's face, without his glasses, with the huge skull-eyes, looked older, vulnerable, wild, the face of a stranger. His girlish bob of hair was tangled. He looked for a moment like a mad old woman.

Cato, who had been reclining, rigid and cold, now, as he felt the touch of Joe's arm, scarcely that, the hairs on his arm touching the hairs on Joe's arm, felt a kind of abstract pang of desire, as if his body was vainly yearning to distract him, or perhaps did not even know of his fate.

Joe, slowly, almost awkwardly, rubbed his arm against Cato's with a sort of intimate animal gesture, then his hand moved and took hold of Cato's hand.

‘Joe, darling, get us out of here.'

‘You shouldn't have done it, Cato. You shouldn't have chucked the priesthood, that was the end. You deserted me. You gave up trying to save me. No wonder I got desperate. No wonder I felt I was all alone. When you were telling me yourself there wasn't any God. I'd have gone with you if you'd still been a priest, if you'd ordered me to go, I'd have done anything. You didn't know your power. You've thrown it all away. I loved you, I still do, but it's no good any more. You're nothing now. I'm sorry for you. I hate to see you here, I hate to see you shitting with fright.'

‘You brought me here.'

‘It was fate, that's what. Oh if only you were different, you but different—you're the only person I've ever really—Father, put your arms round me.'

Suddenly the boy was lying beside him full length, burying his head in Cato's shoulder. Cato moved and took him in his arms. Joe was shuddering, and now he had taken hold of Cato's shirt in his teeth. Cato could feel the dampness of his lips, perhaps of his tears.

‘Oh my dear—' said Cato. Distraught with fear tenderness and desire he put his hand into the tangled hair and cradled the head which felt hot and throbbing to the touch.

With a violent movement Joe jerked away. He stood up and tucked his shirt in. He put on his glasses. ‘Don't maul me. Poor bloody queer, that's all you are. That's all your religion ever was. A way of being a queer.'

‘Joe—'

‘I came to tell you something. Cato.'

‘What?' Cato slowly sat up and put his bare feet to the floor.

‘You got to write another letter.'

‘I won't.'

‘Don't be daft. You will. You don't want to be maimed do you?'

‘I wrote one letter, that's enough. You can write your own letters now.'